


The cities cold blood teaches us to survive

by show_me_kindness_beauty_truth



Series: Of lilies, stained and gilded [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Ableism, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Misogyny, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poverty, Prostitution, Rating May Change, Sweating Sickness, canon-typical use of slurs, child labour too i guess, young vernon roche
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/show_me_kindness_beauty_truth/pseuds/show_me_kindness_beauty_truth
Summary: Vernon Roche was known for many things, like his temper, his ruthlessness and his efficiency. Those were the traits that eventually convinced the prince of Temeria he wanted Roche in his service.But long before that, those were traits that kept him alive.(Basically: this is a fic abt Roche's youth and the journey how he eventually ended up in Foltest's service)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This is primarily based on the Witcher games, however I took a few artistic liberties (especially regarding the timeline) since I tried to combine aspects of book canon and game canon in a way that works with the fic and filled in gaps that canon left open  
> 2) Clarification: This is set in Old Vizima, tho the Royal Family hasn’t moved out of the old manor or started construction to convert it to a brick city yet, so it’s currently just called Vizima (also: Foltest is still prince)  
> 3) We never learn when Roche was born, so I placed his birthday in 1230, which means he would be 11 going 12 at the beginning of this fic  
> 4) This my first ever fanfic, I hope you enjoy it and constructive criticism is always appreciated! :)

_Vizima – 1241_

Lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the late evening for but a blink of an eye, and leaving the black silhouettes of the city visible before the world inevitably returned to darkness. Left was only the fast-paced, rhythmic drum of heavy rain on a wooden façade, and the rumbling of thunder that immediately followed. 

It was the fourth evening in a row that a thunderstorm passed over the lands surrounding Vizima, Vernon noted as he leaned out of the window (or, more of a hole in the wall, really, since _peasants_ couldn’t afford glass, and in poorer districts like these not even as much as shutters), not paying any mind to the rain, and fruitlessly trying to make out anything on the streets below. It wasn’t unusual for late June, and he was grateful that it managed to cool down the unbearable heat of the day at least. The downside, of course, being that his mother and he were lucky enough to live directly under the roof of the building.  
And it wasn’t like the rotten wood would do much to fulfill its purpose and keep the rain out, so there was always water leaking through the ceiling, forming small puddles, no matter how many pots and buckets you tried to arrange in an attempt to avoid that. 

People liked to say that rain cleanses the earth, the air and the soul, washing away the dirt and sins of humanity, but he was convinced that no rain could ever be enough to wash away the piss and blood on the cobbles that Vizima was build on.  
Yet he had little time to dwell on the thought, for the quiet steps he had been waiting for were finally climbing up the open staircase, careful as to not wake the other tenants who have already settled in for the night, heralding the return of his mother from work. 

It was unusual for her to still be working that late. Vernon knew she tried to be home before dark, hence not taking on any new customers when the evening progressed.  
He must’ve been an incredibly persistent one. Or perhaps just insatiable, his brain helpfully supplied quite against his will, and he couldn’t help but curse himself and close his eyes against the revulsion the thought inspired.  
Not that there was anything wrong with what she did, but this was _his mother_ , and it were the customers that were revolting to him. 

Then again, the fact that this thought imposed itself on him in the first place might already be inappropriate and fucked up enough. What exactly did that say about him?

Sure enough, the soft glow of a lantern lit up the room at his back soon after.

“Vernon, get away from the window! You’ll get drenched”, she commanded in a hushed voice, and he didn’t waste any time to comply, pushing himself off of the window sill and turning towards her. She herself was soaked to the skin from her walk through the rain; loose, dark curls now yielding to the weight of water. 

“Oh, Melitele have mercy”, she sighed, exasperation clear in her voice. With just a few steps she crossed the room to where he stood, setting the lantern down on a small table along the way.  
Gently, she placed one hand on his shoulder, and the other beneath his chin to turn his head. Undoubtedly to get a good look on the black eye that proudly stood out on his skin, and the big crack splitting his lower lip. “What did you do this time?”

He merely gave a half-hearted shrug. What was he supposed to tell her?  
That he got into another fight over one of his older classmates calling him a _son of a whore_?  
She would only tell him that this is what he was, and that it was no reason to get physical. She always did; in the end, they regularly ended up having the same conversation, and he almost knew her lecture by heart. 

Or perhaps that, in a fit of anger, he almost ended up deservedly drowning the ploughing bastard in a nearby fountain? And he would have done it, hadn’t it been for his teacher Dominique practically wrenching him away.  
But she really didn’t have to know this. He had already gotten an earful from Dominique that he had let simply pass him by, lips pressed thin and preoccupied by seething even worse than before due to the fact that he was the only one getting chastised. 

Just thinking about it was enough that he felt the anger rising again. It wasn’t like they are only making fun of him, as much as that irked him.  
It were all those crude and _disgusting_ comments at her expense. As if her profession was an invitation to disrespect – especially from some vile, teenaged brat who cums in his pants just thinking about a pair of kneecaps. She did all she could to provide for herself and her son all by herself. She already had to put up with her customers (some of which hit, he knew by every time she tried to cover up a new bruise. Frustratingly enough, there was nothing that could be done about that).  
She deserved better than that. 

“I saved you some stew”, he said instead of answering, if just to steer his mind away from the familiar rage that seemed to be becoming a constant part of his personality. 

Of course, she wasn’t ready to let the topic go. “What did your teacher have to say to this?”  
Something about him being a ploughing psychopath or other, he faintly recalled.  
“That I’m not to come back ‘til I learn to behave.” 

He had to avert his gaze in shame, then, for he couldn’t bear to see the disappointment and sorrow in her eyes. This deep brown he knew he shared with her, that always seemed way too honest. That sometimes seemed to betray way too many emotions.  
It was enough to make his heart clench with guilt. Guilt about jeopardizing his future, when all she wanted was to provide a chance for him to get out and find something better. 

It wasn’t fair. 

He felt the hand beneath his chin move to the nape of his neck, soft lifts pressing a gentle kiss on his forehead. “I’ll make sure to talk to her tomorrow.”  
With that, she turned away. 

* * *

It was just short of a week later that she had the first episode, if it could be called that.  
He didn’t know what else he would call it, after all he didn’t even know what _it_ was.

He just knew that she thought about staying home from work that day, saying she suddenly had this sense of apprehension after he inquired what’s wrong. A strange premonition of impending doom, or some looming horror that shall befall her soon. Like she knew that something would be very wrong, very soon. 

It sounded bad. 

She has never been quick to complain about any woes, so naturally it was enough to have him on edge. He insisted he wanted to stay home as well then, anxiety and worry gnawing at the back of his mind. His mother wanted to hear none of it, arguing that he shouldn’t miss a day of school, it was nothing. 

Plough school, if you asked him. He already read and wrote well enough, and he could always practice to get better on his own. The situation with his classmates hadn’t improved, as it never did and never would, and he really needn’t to be taught respect for Melitele.  
Why schools would teach respect for the gods first and foremost was beyond him anyway. One would assume there were actually important matters to be taught, and respect for the gods served little purpose if the extent of ones’ capabilities only comprised the evening prayers. 

Surely, they were religious institutions. But the servants of Melitele wanted to help, not spread their religion, didn’t they?

Their discussion was resolved for them before it could even begin, as she started to shiver soon after. _Violently_.  
That sealed that she ought not to go to work, and that he wouldn’t leave her alone the entire day either. 

And it also led to sheer panic rising in his chest, clawing its way to his mind and trying to convince him of an unthinkable thought that formed against his will: It came so quickly and unprompted, what if she was dying?  
It left a feeling of dread that settled heavy on his chest, making his breath hitch and causing his pulse to quicken as he moved to help her. He knew this feeling would stay for the remainder of the day. 

He suppressed the thought. 

Exhaustion took over for her, and so he left her in bed with complaints about aching limbs and head, as he set out to visit the herbalist that moved in near Vizima dike a few months ago.  
They couldn’t afford a proper medic, but hopefully their coin was enough for a salve or potion that could help. 

Vernon and the other children in town believed her to be a witch, but she hadn’t yet proven to have magic abilities of any kind. And not the sort of witch to live in swamps and eat lost children either – though even if she was, her meal would turn out rather meager if she attempted to eat him or any of the other starved street urchins in this district.  
Perhaps the fact that she was an elderly woman with extensive knowledge about healing, leading a secluded private life, was foundation enough for such accusations; especially since she is said to charge so little for her services, as if her sole intention was truly to help people.  
He wasn’t sure how the rumors started, but they have spread like the Catriona plague as soon as she took up residence. But if she truly was a witch, why would she keep it a secret, considering the high esteem magic-wielders were held in?

Eventually, he arrived at her hut at the edge of the river. The path leading up to the entrance was lined by small gardens filled with various herbs, as it was to be expected, and he announced himself with a short and determined knock on the wooden door.

“Come in”, a calm voice beckoned, and so he did. 

“What can I do for you, child?” There was only a long table – various bowls, tubes and cut herbs of different kinds in neat piles taking up most of the space, aside from a clean, cleared out working area – and a low cot in the room, but most of the walls were painted with bright, swirling colors coming together as pictures of flowers or animals.  
And in the middle of it stood a plain old woman, her silver strands of hair tied in a neat bun at the back of her head and incredibly kind eyes focused on him, and him alone; regarding him patiently. 

He had a feeling she wasn’t going to eat him. 

“My mother is sick, I’m not sure what it is”, he explained, getting straight to the point. In the end he was neither one to stammer like a fool while looking for the right phrasing, nor to waste many words on issues that deserved to be neatly summarized.  
“She described a sudden feeling that something is wrong, followed by violent shivers, fatigue and pain in limbs and head.”

Despite his frayed nerves, his voice remained steady as ever and the crone nodded contemplatively.

“Aye, I know the illness you are describing.”  
Her voice had a peculiar lilt to it, a faint rolling of the r. Kaedweni, perhaps?

“So, can you help her?”, he pressed, impatiently. 

There was something new in her eyes now. Something he couldn’t quite place his finger on, yet he really didn’t like.

Gods, please don’t let it be pity. 

She moved to leave for another room, only to return with a flask of swirling, brown liquid mere seconds later. Why did she already have this prepared? “Make sure she stays hydrated. This”, she handed him the flask, “is for you, lest you get infected as well.”

The sound of this really didn’t help to calm him down, and he was sure he must have been scowling at her now.

“So, you can’t help her?”

“I’m afraid not. Cool her down and, as I said, keep her hydrated. It’s the only chance she has at surviving the fever.” Oh, so he could expect a fever now?  
“And you yourself have to drink two sips per day, until the flask is empty. One after waking, one before bed.”

Her instructions caused him to drop his attention to the liquid she has handed him. “What is this?”, he asked warily. 

“A potion, to keep the disease from spreading.”

No fucking shit. “But what is in it?”

Now, she just shook her head. “Herbs from my garden. Let the details not concern you.”, she said, and perhaps Vernon should just let it slide. It was not like he would know the herbs if she listed them. 

Yet he couldn’t stop himself from feeling irritated. Some big help she was.  
Perhaps it was the tension, the emotional turmoil he felt; or perhaps it was anger, because this didn’t bear the results he wanted it to. 

“Fine”, he all but snapped. Whatever it was, he just settled on stuffing his free hand in his satchel angrily, getting ready to take out the coin. “How much?”

The crone regarded him with a lot more patience than he probably deserved. “25 orens will do fine.”  
At least the potion was on the somewhat cheaper side for medicine. He paid up, grinding his teeth against the frustrating feeling of helplessness, and already turned to leave. 

“Well met”, he said curtly, not even looking back as he left her and her shop behind. Perhaps not the politest exit, but he had more important things to worry about now. 

* * *

As he got home, the fever had already set in.

He did as he was told by the herbalist, and luckily his mother survived the night. Her fever went back. 

The term ‘relief’ couldn’t even begin to describe what he was feeling as she pulled him into a weak hug the next morning.  
A few days after, she seemed recovered. 

* * *

Another week passed, and the second episode came. 

This time, it was followed by the corpse collector on the same evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) just killing off my ocs right off the bat huh? I'm such a genius writer  
> 2) this chapter is more of an introduction to the setting so plot-wise, not much is happening yet, but I hope you could enjoy this regardless!  
> 3) idek what i'm doing  
> 4) i don't have a beta reader, so if you notice any mistakes please feel free to point them out!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhh i wasn't really happy with the chapter but i didn't have time to take it down again yesteday  
> so instead, i edited a few small things today, hence why the word count and the date for the last update is different  
> just in case anyone was wondering about that

“300 orens for this shithole, you cannot be _serious_ ”, he spat. 

“Watch yer tone, boy. Ye should be grateful fer havin’ a roof o’er yer head in the first place.”  
Cheeks already reddened by anger about a youth’s insolence, his landlord slurred his speech in the way he always did. The way only old people and country rubes spoke. And dwarves, of course. Vernon had always thought it annoying to listen to even on good days, but now it was downright infuriating.  
If his landlord was trying to rip him off, he might as well possess the decency to not talk like a degenerate. 

After his mother had passed away, the couple owning the building had left him alone for a while. The rent for the month had already been paid, and Vernon had reckoned they were trying to respect his grief and honor her memory, at least for the days that followed. Today, however, was the last day of July. The month was nearing its end, and arrangements had to be made.  
And so they came, claiming not to care whether it was a child paying the rent, as long as they got their money. It appeared like a very generous offer, after all not many people would be thrilled to entertain an orphan, too young to have learned a trade, as a tenant. Many a landlord would have thrown him out on the street before the corpse was cold.  
Vernon had been grateful for it, truly. For a moment, there had been hope that he might get to stay. But then they had continued talking and he had realized their true intentions. 

It was rather naïve of him to assume they could be acting out of kindness. Perhaps the recent loss was clouding his judgement – usually, he was prepared for the worst from people. 

The simple truth of the matter was, that the room wasn’t worth nearly as much as they were asking for. And Vernon was fully aware of it, as much as he knew them to be.  
The price they were asking for could very well cover the rent for a decent flat in a better district, so for them to come here, claim that this was what the price had always been – the price his mother had paid before him – and expect him to fall for it was well-nigh personally insulting to him.  
Further, for them to take advantage of his situation in an attempt to over-charge him _was_ very much insulting. It didn’t take a genius to see that, as an orphan, he had few places to go and, as a child, they probably expected him to be too stupid to recognize what they were trying to do. Especially on this short a notice he’d have little choice but to agree to whatever terms they would present.  
Apparently, it wasn’t about respect for the deceased after all. 

“’Tis the capital, ye see. Prices been risin’ lately”, his wife now chimed in.  
“Aye, ‘n more importantly, ‘tis our building. If ye want to stay livin’ here, ye’ll have to pay whatever we ask ye to.” Vernon certainly hadn’t missed the change from _this is the price_ to _we set the price_ ; it was obvious he was at the end of his patience. It seemed he managed to piss him off enough to drop the act.  
They had been haggling for a while now. 

However, that didn’t solve the problem that his landlord had a point. They set the price, and they made it clear they weren’t going to budge. There was little Vernon could do about it, no matter how unjust it might be. 

“There is no way I can get that much money, least of all every month!”, he tried protesting instead. And he knew it to be true, especially if he didn’t want to starve to death. He might already have a hard-enough time trying to find a job in the first place; perhaps he ought to make peace with the idea of sleeping in an alleyway, for that was what he will most likely be doing.  
“Nothing in this district is worth even a fraction of that.”  
It was a last, futile attempt to plead for mercy. Though the words barely needed to be spoken. Reasoning wouldn’t do him any good, Vernon knew; they were fully aware of what they were asking. 

“Then ye better get yer arse out of me property.”  
There was finality in his voice, and Vernon knew he had no chance arguing against it anymore. It sparked the overwhelming urge to scream or cry or _anything_ against the injustice, against the cruelty of the world for taking away his mother and the hopelessness he felt. All those feelings he had desperately tried to silence those past few weeks.  
Where was he to go from here? How was he to go on? He was all alone now. Utterly helpless in an unforgiving city – in an unforgiving world – that liked to force men to their knees and leave them, drained of strength. And in the end, he was nothing but a young and stupid child, not nearly equipped to deal with its merciless violence. He had always been familiar with it, yet never before had he had to face it alone.  
The future had always held few prospects for him, but in this moment, there seemed to be none left. 

And he missed her so much. 

In the end there was nothing to do but surrender to familiar anger.  
“Fine”, he drawled coldly, hands balling into fists until his nails buried in soft flesh. He was certain he looked ready to murder someone. “I shall gather my things and be gone by dusk.” 

A nod, and finally the ploughing leeches left him alone again.

*

A person of noble birth would probably find it depressing how few of the things they had owned were worth holding on to. He mostly ended up with junk he could sell – like cheap tableware, a bottle of perfume, a figurine of Melitele and items of similar nature that weren’t even worth listing – since there had hardly ever been a time where he and his mother could afford to have anything close to personal items. Nothing with emotional value. No dolls his mother had owned since childhood or lead rings from former loves, no favorite pieces of clothing. Nothing.  
If there had ever been anything, it was sold eventually to grant them another day where they wouldn’t have to go hungry.  
Luckily, he wasn’t of noble birth, so he hadn’t had to waste his time with pitying himself right now, as they always did. And the nobility has always been greedy, materialistic assholes; their opinion hardly accounted for anything. This was a reality he had always lived with, so he had long accepted it.

Or perhaps it just wasn’t in his nature to let this trouble him. There were enough people sharing his situation who would very much find it depressing to be themselves right now, he was sure. 

It might have been for the better. It meant he had little difficulties leaving behind the place he grew up in until now. The place he would nevertheless always remember when he thought about his childhood, and to which his memories would unavoidably be tied to. No matter how good or bad they might be. 

No, he wouldn’t let the past trouble him. What troubled him was the future. 

The sun was steadily sinking lower to vanish behind the horizon as he stepped out on the street. The last light of the day tinged the city in an almost romantic shade of gold and red, and a warm breeze softly chased through the narrow lanes to remind him that this was summer, carrying the distant noise of a busy city and the soft chirping of birds. Under different circumstances, this could have been a beautiful evening.  
Just for a moment, Vernon allowed himself to take it all in. To consciously feel the warmth of the setting sun and the static in the air, announcing another summer storm. As his mother had always told him, sometimes you needed to give yourself a moment to stop and allow yourself to breathe.  
A moment of serenity, so you could face whatever was to come. 

And then, move on. 

He had already returned his key to the front door, so this was officially it.  
And, as it was late, he would have to find someplace else to spent the night as quickly as possible. The streets could turn incredibly dangerous at night, and there was no way he could spare coin for a room at a tavern. 

The shelters run by the Sisters of Melitele could have been an option. Though they filled quickly, and at this time of the day all spots would surely be taken. Besides, they tended to turn children away, redirecting them to the orphanage instead, and this was something he wanted to avoid. 

Free public hospitals, orphanages, homeless shelters and schools – they were all run by the Sisters of Melitele, for she was the mother goddess and her followers preached love and peace and benevolence. His mother had believed in her as well.  
They were good, charitable people who tried to offer safety and guidance to anyone who needed it, and frankly, Vernon couldn’t bring himself to belief in that. Not fully. It was suspicious if you considered how many people in those orphanages turned out to become priests and clerics of Melitele in the end; or how their faith was the center of their education as well. He didn’t doubt altruism was integral in what they were doing, but nothing could convince him that this was all there was to it. 

He also knew too many of his old classmates lived at the orphanage. Living with them would only lead to confrontations he would rather avoid.  
Surely, he clashed with them regularly at school, but this had always been one on one, on the short breaks they took. Being around them constantly, all at the same time – he would never admit it, but the thought of it scared him. He did well enough at making himself their enemy, and he wasn’t sure how much of their bullshit he could bear. Not after what happened.  
He also wasn’t sure what they were capable of – how far they were willing to take it, after he had broken more than one nose. And he sure as shit wasn’t interested in finding _that_ out either.  
It would be reason enough for them to turn him away, too. 

So, no, neither the shelter nor the orphanage was an option. Not if it could be avoided.  
He would try to find something on his own first. 

Technically, it wasn’t like he even truly was an orphan. His father might be gods know where, yet chances were he was still alive.  
His mother had only seen 17 summers when he was born. She had been young, and from the way she sometimes talked (or sometimes, avoided to talk) about it, Vernon suspected she didn’t have a choice when his father decided he wanted to plough her.  
And then he immediately ran, like the piece of shit that he was. Vernon truly wished he did die a horrible death, and if they ever met he wouldn’t mind making sure of it himself.  
In his own eyes he was an orphan. To him, both of his parents were dead; on way or the other. 

Admittedly, part of the reason he didn’t want to go there could have been his personal pride. 

If only he wasn’t running out of time.  
The sun had set by now, and he had to take advantage of the remaining light as long as it lasted to find a shelter. From the rain that was bound to come soon, as well as everything else.

*

In the end, he found what he was looking for.  
A big ledge, right in front of the heavy iron gate that led down into the sewers. It was far from perfect, but it had to do for tonight. If anything, the dirt and grime stuck to the bars and the distinctive stench of Vizima that undoubtedly had his source right here, at sewer gates strewn across the city, was oddly fitting for his life.  
A shitty hideout for a shitty situation.

And he hadn’t found it a minute too early; as soon as he sat down, tucked away into a corner and letting his head rest against the cold stone, the rain started to pour down. 

He did always have impeccable timing, Vernon couldn’t help but think with a hint of amusement. 

But it wasn’t enough to overshadow the sadness that settled in his chest again, now that he finally had the chance to truly slow down and let himself think over everything that had happened, for the first time today.  
And what a long day it had been. It stood in contrast with those past weeks, where his grief had resulted in the days blurring into each other; he could barely remember them properly now, they were nothing but a haze.  
He had always known how unwanted the likes of him were to society. The people in poverty that everyone grudgingly accepted as a necessary evil, but that no one wanted to look at or acknowledge, and that everyone just silently accepted not to have a future. But to reflect on that now, having to sleep on the street for the first time in years, made the reality of it gain center stage. Again. 

He was exhausted. 

Tomorrow, he would have to sell the junk he took with him. Then, he would have to look for a job – any job – and make sure to find a better place to sleep. Somewhere where he didn’t have to sleep in the dirt, where the ground wasn’t uncomfortable, and the coldness of the wall wasn’t seeping through his shirt and into his back.  
But those were problems for the next day. For now, he needed to try and get some rest. If that was even possible. 

If he was lucky, a morbid part of his mind suggested, the drowned dead from the sewers would get him and he wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) if you speak in a similar dialect to the commonfolk in the witcher, i am truly sorry roche insulted the way you talk, i swear this is purely his personal opinion  
> 2) i don't have anything close to resembling a posting schedule, but i will try to not have more than 1 week in between chapters  
> 3) à propos, if you want, you can check out my tumblr @find-me-kindness-beauty-truth ; i always post a link to the new chapter there as soon as it's up!  
> 4) same as for the first chapter: if you find any mistakes, letting me know will be appreciated!  
> 5) i intend to let this fic live up to its name; roche will probably have a terrible time


	3. Chapter 3

He woke the next day, to the silence that thrived in a just waking city. To the tranquility of the morning, where families gathered to share a meal and get ready to leave for their bland day to day lives, yet the streets were still empty, and only the sounds of nature spoke to whomever was there to listen. Soon, people would leave their houses and fill the world with noise once again. 

It was an age-old routine that never changed in times of peace, the transition between nighttime and the never-changing days that followed. Part of a monotonic cycle that would prevail until this world ended. When it boiled down to it, every day was the same.  
In the end, that cycle was the only thing life would ever have to offer.  
It was also a cruel reminder how little an individual soul would ever matter. Whatever happened in your life, whatever suffering had to be endured; the world would keep spinning, and the cycle would continue. With or without you, and no matter how much change a single person could inspire – when the smoke settled, things stayed the same in their essence.

The world didn’t care about his or anyone else’s struggles. It didn’t care about anything.  
But perhaps, that only meant he had to. 

In a world that didn’t care, there had to be people who do. Otherwise, everything would be meaningless. 

The sun was just rising. Its light slowly crept further along the cobbled streets of the city, causing the buildings that stood in its way to throw long shadows, until it stopped just a step short of his cozy resting place for the night. He only had to lift his hand for it to touch it, the warmth tickling his skin.  
It had rained most of the night, and the sound of it had proven enough to eventually lull him into a light sleep. It had also cooled down the night, but come morning it only caused humidity to stay behind. Surely it will mix with the heat that is bound to weigh heavily on the air by noon, leaving them with a disgustingly sweltry day. 

Something to look forward to, Vernon thought sardonically as he let his arm drop back to his side. 

He could avoid the crowd at the market before it came to that. After all he had the entire midmorning, when it wouldn’t be quite as busy yet. As it was, the booths wouldn’t be manned for quite some time still, so there was little to do but savor the morning and wait for the city around him to flare up to life.

*

In the end, he managed to sell his junk for 40 orens – that wasn’t a bad price, all things considered, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. He had bought something small for breakfast and safely tucked the pouch with the rest of his coin away.  
Now, he was on his way to the dike. All the most important trade routes from and to Vizima passed through there, so those in need of a job always went there first, in hopes of scoring a position as a dockworker. It left the merchants there with way too much power over people, if you asked Vernon. After all, with people practically toppling over each other to be the one employed, it meant they could hire the ones who worked for the smallest coin, steadily driving wages down even further. And of course, the greedy bitches took advantage of people desperately in need of a job – gods knew they could pay proper wages, but why would they, when they could also buy ten people for the same price? It was all about the profit; the people breaking their backs to carry someone else’s shit for three orens a day were nothing but _assets_.  
And there were enough nobles and high-born bastards who had the nerves to blame them, on top of it. Even some common folk, too. The people saying if they don’t want to get treated like dirt, they simply shouldn’t put up with it. Get up and find another job. Refuse to work under these conditions.  
Like it’s that simple in the real world.

Vernon could hardly share that attitude. Least of all now that he was on his way to join their ranks.  
It was an incredibly easy thing to say if you never knew the struggle of finding work when no one wanted you. But he grew up seeing his mother struggle, he witnessed first-hand how hard it could be and what the desperation did to people. You can’t get anywhere in this world without money, and the longer it took to find something, the slimmer your chances got.  
It was a vicious causal nexus that very few could break, like the entire world worked against you if you are born on the wrong side of mansion walls. Those who are born rich get richer, while those who are born disadvantaged only get to face a growing pile of obstacles. 

Now it was time for him to face his pile and watch it grow. 

Shouting was the first thing that announced the upcoming port of Vizima Dike. It was the telltale sign of any port – men bawling at each other as they bring their ships to anchor, as they lose another round of dice, or perhaps as they shout after a pretty whore that invitingly pranced past them on heeled shoes to cross the dike.  
Vernon only had to push past the people streaming out of the tall gate, and the sight of it, previously hidden by the wooden palisade, came into view. The dike was the only route connecting the poorer district, where he lived, with the newer ones across the river.  
His district has been the original Vizima, when it used to be nothing more than another small dump of a village. Centuries ago, before it became the capital and more people settled on both sides of the shore to expand it until it became a city; before rich merchants and richer nobles settled down to expand it even further – all of it built on the remains of elven ruins, of course.  
You could tell it has never been reconstructed in all those years, since everything focused on the newer, better districts now. He knew the brothel his mother used to work in was just across the dike as well, though he has never been there.  
The dike being the only route meant it was always full of people, even if you didn’t count those visiting the port. 

Most of them didn’t pay him any mind as he made his way along the mossy footbridge, down to the landing stage. He was just another dirty stray roaming the city in their eyes. There were times when this was an advantage – he was a very perceptive child, and no one paying any mind to him meant he often had the opportunity to _learn_ things about the people around him. The most interesting things really, some of which might come in handy one day. 

Right now, it only meant he had to take the initiative, and talk to the ploughing sailors.

*

Vernon couldn’t decide what was more arduous – the work itself or dealing with the people who might offer it.

He approached the merchants and captains with as much civility as he could muster. A polite smile, a greeting to the city if they arrived or a farewell if they were leaving, a simple “Do you need any assistance with your cargo, Sir?” over and over again.  
Many of them just scoffed and told him to bugger off right then. A handful of them made snide remarks about him being too scrawny to properly lift anything. They were wrong; Vernon was very much capable of lifting the heavy crates. Not especially well, and he struggled with balancing their weight, sure, but he _could_ lift them, and that was good enough. The few times that people actually agreed to his help proved as much, as he was spending a good amount of time carrying them on and off of boats alongside others in similar positions to his. 

Unsurprisingly, those others were of all ages too – a few were even as young as him. Maybe they were orphans as well and trying to earn a coin, or perhaps children trying to help out paying their parents rent. Vernon really didn’t have it in him to actually care about them or their stories. 

If sleeping in the corner of a street didn’t make his back hurt – and it didn’t; it was some twisted perk of being as young as him when you had to sleep in an alley, as wrong as that was – then this was sure to do the trick.  
His back and arm muscles strained badly rather quickly from the weight, and his fingers hurt from the way some of the handles cut into them. One time, he almost dropped one of the crates into the water as one of the younger coworkers barged against him on the narrow gangway (admittedly, if it came down to it, he would rather have dropped it than follow it into the water) spitting something along the lines of “Move it, _whoreson_ ”  
He would’ve very much liked to actually drop it then, and make sure this arsehole followed into the water right after. It sparked familiar anger in him, but also a feeling of dread that was just as familiar and settled in his stomach. Even here, even after her death, he still wouldn’t be free of their torment it seemed.  
Even though this instance was comparably harmless, it was a sudden and frustrating realization, and he just stubbornly swallowed the tears that stung at the back of his eyes down and finished his work. 

Not to mention the sun, that was mercilessly burning down on them the entire time. The work was far from pleasant, and it was beyond him how nobles were the ones that got to get rich off of so called ‘hard work’, when all they did was sit on their arses all day. 

They were doing actual work, and all this shit didn’t even pay off.  
He barely earned anything that day. Loading and unloading the ship was as time-consuming as it was exhausting. Sometimes it took multiple hours to secure all of the cargo, and with the breaks in between, where he had to find a new merchant to hire him, he didn’t manage to finish off all that many ships until dusk came and went, and the port died down again. So, he left with incredibly little to show. After all, the most you could earn was about five coins per ship, if the employer was feeling generous. 

That was basically how all of his days went from there.  
In the nights where it didn’t rain, he could sleep whatever place was the most comfortable, as long as he didn’t have to worry about not getting wet. What he did have to worry about were the occasional orphans going missing from the streets during nighttime. Something that has been going on for years, but that no one seemed to care about. And no one knew what happened to them either, though Vernon had enough imagination to theorize. None of his theories sounded pleasant.  
During the days, he would work at the docks. It was always the same repetitive bullshit, and he always made very little coin. Occasionally, he would be hired to deliver a message instead, or sometimes scrub a deck or some pricks boots. Given that he had to eat somewhat regularly, his revenue from the junk he sold depleted rather quickly, too, even though he was careful spending it. Which, in turn, forced him to skip some meals, until he saved up enough to afford basic food again. The hunger was probably one of the worst parts of it. It was painful some days, but a hollow sort of pain. One that left him tired, and it almost made him forget to drink at those days, as he didn’t feel the thirst anymore. He forced himself to remember. 

One time, some jester tried to pay him with Novigrad crowns instead of Temerian orens. Ploughing Novigrad crowns.  
Vernon had just stared down at them, all civility forgotten.  
“What the fuck are those?” He had glared at the merchant before him.  
“They’re crowns”, he had replied condescendingly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
“As in Novigrad crowns?”  
“Aye. Are you daft, boy?” He had spoken with feigned concern, as if he was somehow worried about Vernon’s common sense. His irritation was plain to see nonetheless. Which only served to spur on Vernon’s own anger.  
“Well, what the _fuck_ am I to do with _crowns_.” Vernon didn’t even attempt to keep it out of his voice how pissed he was. “You were to pay in orens.”  
“I paid you fair coin. Exchange it for orens at a bank, if you must”, and with that, he had dismissively waved him away. With the current fees, exchanging a handful of crowns for orens was hardly even worth it. He must’ve been aware of it, as a merchant.  
Yet another proof that only lying bloodsuckers and backstabbing pricks walked this earth.

***

In the end, he endured sleeping on the streets for a little more than a month, until he let desperation get the better of him, and he decided to swallow his pride and do anything to have proper shelter for the night.  
It was a few days into September now, and with the autumn and winter months nearing, that was probably a good call too.

He still didn’t dare to go to the orphanage. That was something he would avoid at all costs, for the prospect of living with _them_ still scared him more than he liked. Just thinking about it was more than enough to make him anxious.  
It might be an unwise call, but to someone as young as him, the independence he’d lose at the orphanage seemed more important than the future prospects he’d gain. Combined with his fear, it was enough to convince him not to go there. 

Instead, it led him to this moment. 

His muscles ached terribly with every movement as he forced his arm to lift and knock on the wooden door. He wasn’t sure if coming here would actually bear any results, but with few alternatives, it seemed worth a try. He wasn’t sure if coming here actually even made any sense, or if it was just a bout of madness that overcame him.  
There would be no time to turn back now, however, as the door swung open a moment later. 

“We’re closed for a break, please come back – “, the words practically died in her mouth as her gaze dropped down to him and she realized she wasn’t talking to a costumer.  
The woman who opened the door seemed young, but perhaps it were just her elegant elven features making her look younger. Despite her eagerness to turn whoever knocked away, she was carrying a warm, inviting smile, that seemed to be a requirement in her profession.  
It was fake nonetheless, it’s sole purpose to please costumers, and it was almost fascinating to see the changes as it made room for a genuine smile.  
“Oh, I know you! You’re Janine’s boy, aren’t you?” 

Vernon only nodded, a little taken aback by being recognized. For some reason, a mild feeling of anxiety started to rise in him for the fraction of a moment.  
Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. 

“I haven’t seen you in forever, you really took after her looks.” There was a hint of sadness to her now, and she stepped away to open the door for him to enter.  
“Please, come in.” 

She must’ve noticed him hesitate for a heartbeat, before he forced himself to move and cross the threshold. If she did, she didn’t comment on it and only closed the door behind him.  
Gods, he hated brothels.  
“I thought inns are always open?”, Vernon only asked. An insignificant topic, in hopes to calm his nerves.  
“Aye, the inn is open. The brothel and tavern, however, ain’t. Not at this hour at least”, she answered with an encouraging smile, as she started to lead him into unadorned hallway with closed doors to either side. “And you didn’t knock at the inn’s door, did you now?”  
He didn’t. He knocked at the backdoor to the brothel – the one that led to the rooms where the girls got ready for work. Purposefully. Yet she humored him and answered the question anyway. 

“There is no reason to be nervous, you know. I swear we won’t bite”, the elf said as they made a turn into another, nearby room. It was filled with other women, standing in front of rows of plain, old mirrors and obviously getting ready for their shift. Or perhaps they were just using the end of their break to touch up, before the brothel opened again.  
Only some of them cast them a glance through the mirrors as the two entered. They all turned, however, as the elven girl next to him cheerfully announced “Look who I found, ladies!”

There were perhaps fifteen of them, mostly humans and all wearing _accentuating_ clothes. They seemed to be different ages, yet they all looked young nonetheless. And most of them eyed him curiously.  
“That’s amazing, Muriel. We don’t take customers under the age of 18”, one of them dryly informed her; a human with short, black hair and stern eyes. She seemed to be one of the older ones among them. 

“That’s not what I’m here for”, Vernon sheepishly piped up, yet he couldn’t help but glare at her for the insinuation. The elf – Muriel – gently placed a hand on his shoulder, then.  
The touch almost made him jump. Being the center of attention in a whorehouse only made him even more uncomfortable, and he couldn’t help the growing feeling that this was a bad idea; as baseless as it might be. 

Another one just eyed him critically. “Where did you find him? The gutter?”, she just huffed. “Finding a dirty street kid in Vizima isn’t exactly an accomplishment, you know.” 

“It’s Janine’s son”, Muriel said by way of explanation. The atmosphere of the room shifted to recognition, then.  
“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss”, one of the other girls chimed up, and many of the remaining murmured in agreement. “It’s so nice to have you drop by, though”, another one exclaimed. “Yes, it’s so good to meet you!”  
“We should’ve recognized you, you look so much like her!”, more agreement from the others, followed by more exclamations of similar nature by the different women. His gaze automatically tried to follow whoever was speaking, resulting in it flickering back and forth between the women in an attempt to keep up.  
Overwhelming might be an understatement for this situation. And it seemed to show on his face, too. 

“Please, girls. Lay off the poor lad, there is no need to pile on him.” It was the one who first spoke, again. The one with the stern eyes. She seemed to hold some kind of authority; the others went silent immediately. At least it gave him excuse to focus on her and blend the women out for now. “What’s your name?”  
“I – Vernon”, it sounded unsure, even to his own ears, and he could honestly punch himself right now. For letting himself get so nervous, especially in a way that led to them _noticing_.  
He hated it when other people could guess his thoughts or feelings so easily. 

“Well, Vernon”, she crossed her arms in front of her chest now, “I suppose this is not just a social call. What can we do for you?”  
He allowed himself a moment to compose himself again before answering, his eyes calmly meeting hers. If his reason to come here might seem silly, appearing confident is the only thing to balance it out now.  
“I need to speak to the madame.”  
His answer caused her to raise an eyebrow. “You _need_ to?”  
“I would like to”, he conceded.  
“And why is that?” Now, it was his turn to raise his eyebrow, almost provokingly. “I believe that is none of your concern.” 

And it served its purpose too, for the mood of the room immediately turned tense.  
It was obvious the answer displeased her, and behind her, the other women exchanged concerned looks. There seemed to be a chastisement already on the tip of her tongue, when Muriel chimed in again.  
“You don’t have to bother with this, I’ll take him to her”, she offered, and after a curt nod from the other woman, Muriel gently nudged him out of the room again. Apparently, she has decided he was not worth the trouble.

They walked in silence for a moment, Muriel’s hand still not having left his shoulder, until they put some distance between themselves and the room.  
Muriel sighed, then. “Janine did mention that you liked to pick fights”, she regarded him with a smile.  
Vernon just shrugged in way of an answer, not bothering to look anywhere but in front of him. “Who is she?”  
“Camille. Madame Chastity’s unofficial second”, she explained. “You know, it is rude to come into other people’s houses and disrespect the host.”  
Again, Vernon just shrugged. He had figured as much, given the way Camille carried herself and the others reacted to her, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a confirmation nonetheless. 

It didn’t take long until they stopped again, in front of a closed door. Muriel turned to him then, and this time, he turned to look up to her as well.  
“She ought to be in there still, bookkeeping and such.” It was delivered with her usual smile, and now her hand left his shoulder to mess up his hair instead. “Good luck, kid”, and with that, she turned and walked away again.  
Vernon couldn’t quite find it in him to genuinely be offended, as he glared after her. It didn’t have any actual heat to it, it was more of an automatic response, and his hand moved to sort out his hair again. 

She left before he could thank her… he’d have to make sure to find her and do it later, no matter how his chat with Madame Chastity turned out. 

With a last, deep breath, he turned to face the door, and once again, he lifted his aching arm to knock on dark wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... I don't know if you heard, but there might be a new european copyright law soon. I don't exactly know in which way it would affect ao3, and I don't exactly know what my specific country would do about it, but since I am european, I would be affected be the law as well, should it pass. That obviously means, if fanfiction is considered a copyright infringement, I wouldn't be able to upload or update any fics anymore. There is still time for the law not to pass, but I just want everyone reading this to keep this in mind ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Chapter 4

Madame Chastity was an intimidating woman. 

Not in the threatening way. Her very aura simply seemed to inspire respect.  
It was in the way she regarded him; a certain calmness to her features, yet sharp and attentive green eyes. In the way she carried herself; a good posture and grace even as she sat before him, hand lowered with a feather quill held loosely between her fingers. She might’ve been a personification of what people called poise.  
It was almost conflictive how it was both calming, as well as making Vernon cautious. He wouldn’t want to accidentally disrespect her; he got the feeling it was hard to get on her bad side, however it was definitely not a place anyone would want to be. 

“Vernon Roche, is it?” He nodded. “Well, Vernon, what brings you here?”

“Well, umm… “, he hesitated as he took her in. She looked to be in her forties. Her hair, braided into a bun in a rather complicated yet elegant way, was beginning to fade from blonde to grey. Her clothes were fine enough, a high collar and neat appearance befitting her name. Standing here before her reminded Vernon of how ridiculous his reasoning to come here actually was. His expectations have never been high, but what would he do should she likely turn him away?  
He wasn’t even sure why his visit suddenly made him this anxious. He had feared it to be a fool’s errand from the very beginning, but as his desperation grew, so did his willingness to take a chance. So what good was it to doubt himself now, after he had already made up his mind?  
“I would like to work for you.” 

Her gaze remained unwavering as she laid the feather aside and folded her hands, watching him without responding. Listening. She seemed to expect an elaboration.  
“At the inn or the tavern, of course. Not the brothel”, Vernon added quickly as he felt a slight heat rising to his cheeks. He respected the workers, but something about brothels had always made him uneasy, and it seemed to affect him enough blush and stammer. He felt like an idiot. “You, umm – I know you own this entire establishment, don’t you?”

A contemplative hum, he took it as a yes. But still no answer. 

“I could”, he swallowed – how much did he have to give to make the offer attractive? How much could he give? – “work from afternoon into the night, you needn’t even pay me. I just need a place to sleep.” 

“You know, this isn’t an orphanage. Why not go there? Or to one of the shelters, perhaps?”, the madame asked now. Vernon shrugged, but his heart shrank at the question. “They said they were full”, he lied. It was easy enough to believe, however. This city, like every other, was drowning in orphans and homeless people.  
“What makes you think we got room for you?” 

Vernon could tell this was a genuine question, not a rhetorical way to tell him off. It didn’t make the answer any easier, however. Realistically, he was going out on a limb here. “I don’t. It simply seemed worth a try, I suppose”, he admitted. “There is nowhere else to go.”

“You got evicted after your mothers passing, correct?” Vernon nodded. “Have you been staying on the streets until now?” He nodded again, suspense steadily growing within him with every word they shared.  
“I know you care about your girls”, he started carefully, steadily holding her gaze. “About my mom. Don’t you? That… counts for something, right?”  
It was a rather obvious attempt to appeal to her compassion, should she have any. She did, Vernon liked to believe by the way she had been looking at him. 

The madame sighed now. “I do. And I feel for you, really”, she picked up her quill again. It didn’t sound like empty words. “It seems you’re in luck, Vernon. I was contemplating employing a new helper at the inn, I see no reason why it couldn’t be you.”  
His heart picked up at her words, and almost immediately he was filled with an entirely new kind of tension that almost made it hard to remain still. Excitement that he might finally, _finally_ be in luck. Still, his cynicism commanded him to remain wary. The offer was within his reach, but there was still a chance for her to retract it.  
He keenly watched her write something down as she continued, “Afternoon into the night, it is. We can arrange for a cot in the attic. You shall have a daily warm meal with the others, and whatever coin the guests may spare for your service. Are these conditions satisfactory?”, she asked, just as she finished writing.  
“Yes, of course!”, he eagerly responded, “Thank you.”

“Very good.” She gave a content nod. “You can already stay here tonight and lend a hand in the tavern this evening. You’ll have to convince us of the quality of your work these first few weeks.” She moved to extend the note she wrote. “I do not condone slackers or a bad attitude.”  
“Of course,” Vernon responded as he moved to accept it. He had little worries to spare for that. Vernon had always known how to pull his weight, enough so to make up for his temper. Perhaps not always for his tongue, though.  
“Find Camille and give her this before their break ends, then, and find the cook once he arrives. He’ll have tasks for you.”

*

Vernon allowed himself to lean back against the door and take a deep breath after he closed it behind him. It was hard to wrap his head around the fact that things might start to improve again, at least for now. He was used to situations turning sour all too quickly, and he didn’t expect this to be an exception or a permanent solution, but it was a start to solving his problems. At least he will be off the streets during winter, it improved his chances not to freeze to death.  
It appeared he won’t be starving to death either. Those prospects helped ease some of the tension and worry that had been settling around his heart these past few months. He hadn’t even noticed how much they had built up, until he was practically able to sense them dissolve for now.

It irked him, however, how much his mind had exaggerated his chances to fail. The fear to be rejected.  
He was well aware his chances had been slim, given that it might not be the most sensible approach to visit your mother’s former whorehouse for shelter. A lot of the madams didn’t actually care about their workers, the same way many bosses didn’t actually care about their employees. He had been lucky that Madame Chastity seemed to be a decent person, one of the few, otherwise this visit would’ve had an entirely different outcome. But for his mind trying to convince him not to try; to just turn around and leave, convince him this was a bad idea that could never bear any fruits, just because of anxiety –  
It was infuriating. He wanted to believe he had better control over his emotions than that.  
He wasn’t interested in ignoring his instincts altogether, but his irrational fears and aversions had been standing in his way and affecting him ever since he entered the brothel. It was definitely something he needed to get a grip on.  
Actually, they had been ever since he decided against the orphanage. But for the sake of his sanity, he decided to count that as self-preservation instead. Maybe he was a coward for refusing to think about that particular topic. 

He swore to himself not to let that become a habit, even if it worked out for him this time. For now, he continued down the corridor Muriel previously led him through. All the way back to the dressing room the women had been in, where he was met with a dozen prostitutes swarming out of the door.  
His previous assumption must’ve been wrong, and not all of them were preparing for their shift. In fact, some of them seemed to have finished for today and changed into more socially accepted clothing to head out. It made him come to a rather obvious realization, that nevertheless eluded him before. As silly as it sounded, he simply never considered what prostitutes wore outside of their shifts. That they had day-to-day clothes as everyone else, and not just the short frocks they wore when trying to attract customers.  
The flipside was even more uncomfortable to consider, for he had only ever seen his mother outside of work, as was to be expected. He knew what she did, and he never tried to imagine what her job looked like (not that he wanted to, it was his mother after all), but what her job had truly meant seemed painfully clear to him now. 

As did his disrespect.  
He loved his mother, and he always knew she deserved respect regardless of her occupation. He also always believed himself to be respectful towards others in her line of work, but now he noticed it to be true only in the abstract. His mother, as well as every one of her coworkers, were the same person at home as they were during work – it didn’t begin or end with their shifts or clothes. Somewhere along the line he seemed to have made the same mistake society and everyone else constantly made. He had learned to view them as their occupation during their work, and as people only outside of it. 

It was such a simple mistake, and he was glad he caught himself making it. Being aware of it meant he could stop. After all, they all deserved better than how society regarded them, and he owed them as much. 

He managed to slip past the other women – most of them didn’t pay him any mind for now – and found who he was looking for hanging back in the room, letting the others leave first. He also noticed Muriel wasn’t among them anymore, she must’ve left already.  
“Excuse me, Camille?”, he started as he approached her, and Camille turned her attention to him. “The madame sent me to find you”, he extended the note she had written for her, “and give you this.”  
“Right, thank you.”, she replied as she picked the note from him and skimmed it. “So, you’re here for a job.”, she stated and looked back at him. “Could’ve just said so, no?”

“I suppose. I apologize for my earlier behavior, it was uncouth.” Vernon tried to look sincere as he said that. He did mean it, in a way. It wasn’t his intention to antagonize her, even if it had always been one of his strong suits. He also didn’t want to undermine her; he was dependent on this position for now, so he would do well to know his place.  
He had always had a big mouth, and he refused to give out this kind of respect to anyone unless the person earned it, but he could certainly manage to remain professional in the meantime. In the end, Camille hadn’t done anything wrong either, so he might’ve been ruder than necessary. 

She gave a nod as a form of acceptance. “In future, you’ll have to watch the attitude if you’re to work here.”  
“Of course, I know”, he conceded as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I just got defensive”, he said with a hint of defensiveness, the irony of which did not escape him. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry."

He almost thought he could see a hint of amusement before she waved for him to follow, accompanied by a “Come along.”  
The rest of the women had already left by now, and he followed her down the plain, narrow halls to a dimly lit, square staircase at the far end. “This set of stairs leads up to the attic”, she explained as they started to climb them. “Additionally, there is a hatch at the top of both the brothels and the inns staircase. Structurally, this is all one building, but the rooms of the brothel and those of the inn are separated. They share the attic and the basement floors, however, part of the tavern, the kitchen, and the courtyard garden.”  
The building had three upper levels, he had counted outside, in addition to the ground floor. Vernon wasn’t entirely sure, but he assumed they had already climbed three flights of stairs. It was hard to tell, since the stairs connected the backrooms and the attic without exits to the brothel’s floors. They had to be halfway to the attic at least.  
“So where is the tavern? And the kitchen, I am supposed to go there after.”  
“Well, there are two basement floors, the lower one of which is for storage, and the other is the shared tavern space. The brothel and inn both have their own tavern space at ground level as well, those are connected by the kitchen in the middle, so you’ll have to cross through the tavern to get there. Behind the counter, you won’t miss it.”  
Camille was talking matter-of-factly, and Vernon got the feeling it wasn’t solely because the architecture of this establishment was a dry topic. She struck him as a woman who didn’t waste words unnecessarily. “Each part has its own entrance, and so do the backrooms, as you already know.”  
“So, the upper floors, where the actual rooms are, they are completely separated?”  
“Yes, that way the customers of the inn cannot complain if they don’t want to… _mingle_ with the customers or staff of the brothel.”

“If they mind the brothel, why do they stay here, rather than an inn that is only an inn?”, Vernon asked with a frown.  
Camille responded with an amused huff. “Some stay for the low prices. Others like to discreetly seek out our services later, but they believe voicing displeasure about the brothel helps to keep up appearances. To make it sound like they only stay for the inn, so they won’t lose the moral high ground.”, she explained.  
Sometimes adults struck him as exceptionally weird creatures. Them, and their hypocritical ways to navigate social expectations. 

“That’s stupid”, he remarked plainly.  
“I agree.”  
They had reached the top of the stairs, finally, and Vernon stepped into the big, open attic space after Camille. The size was the first thing Vernon noticed about it. The ceiling was about a normal height, but you could tell the brothel and inn shared the attic. The entire room stretched across the breadth of the building itself, only interrupted by the occasional wooden pillar, and what appeared to be various pieces of old furniture covered in cloth and closed boxes or trunks that were stored up here. Thanks to the size of the room, there was enough space to move around freely regardless.  
The second thing were the two windows at each of the far walls, respectively. They obviously weren’t enough to combat the dusty air by themselves, even though they surely helped a lot, but they were wide enough to fill a significant amount of the room with natural light.  
More importantly, they were wide enough that some kind of bird found its way in and build its nest at the top one of the pillars. He could imagine it wasn’t the only animal that found itself up here, but he would see that for himself soon enough.  
The only problem they posed is, that they were sure to let the cold in during winter. Unlike the streets, it wouldn’t snow in here though, so overall it was still an improvement. 

“There are cots stored over there somewhere. Grab one and set it up wherever you like”, she waved almost dismissively in the general direction. “Move the things around if you must. If you are strong enough to do so, that is. We rarely ever need to be up here, so it shouldn’t bother anyone.”  
Camille turned to face him now. “I must get back to work, surely you can manage alone from here.”  
Vernon nodded. He could definitely work with this, may it be dusty and spider-infested. “Thank you.”

*

Vernon had found the cots and was lucky enough to find one that was neither broken, nor all too dirty and gross.  
With patience, he had managed to clear a space near one of the windows and set it up at the wall. He had also found blankets he dusted off, folded and placed on the cot, and a few old room dividers that he used as makeshifts walls around the space. That way he had somewhat of a small room near the window, just for the sake of some structure.  
He had picked the window facing the lake past the walls. That way, he could have somewhat of a decent view, instead of staring out into a dirty city.

Vernon had been satisfied with his ‘room’ for now and left for the kitchen. To see if the cook had already arrived for the evening. He had, in fact.  
It was a rather unpleasant man, loud and rough. He seemed to be from the nearby countryside, originally, Vernon noted from his dialect.  
He had cursed Vernon out that he shouldn’t be in the kitchen, and Vernon almost didn’t have the chance to get a word in and explain the situation, since he had gone into a full-blown rant about seemingly everything while he prepared the kitchen to be opened. Vernon couldn’t tell if he was actually busy and stressed, or if he just made a bigger deal of simple tasks than necessary.  
“Why didn’t ye say so sooner, lad. Tis about time they send me a helper”, the man complained, before stating a list of things that needed to be done. More accurately, that he expected Vernon to remember and do for him. It boiled down to supplies needing to be brought up from the basement, and countless errands to the nearby market and fish market. He almost didn’t catch everything, but as soon as the list was complete the cook had already redirected his attention elsewhere. 

Truthfully, the entire ordeal had left Vernon a little dumbfounded.

“Can I at least have your name?”, Vernon had asked, unnerved. “And could you maybe… write that down?”  
The cook almost groaned in annoyance, while continuing his preparation. “It’s Reinald. Do whatever ye remember, come back for the rest later. And don’t act daft, boy.” 

And that’s how Vernon ended up dragging a heavy ploughing sack of potatoes up two flight of stairs, from the storage basement to the kitchen.  
He had to lift it up and set it down on each step individually to manage, and it was getting on his nerves, but it went off without a hitch until he reached the very last step. That’s when the sack almost got stuck on the wood of the stairs, and with the momentum of it coming loose, he stumbled backwards and right into someone. 

Two hands steadying him at his back, he caught a glimpse of long, auburn brown hair and looked up into a familiar smile. “Careful there.”  
“Oh”, he exclaimed intelligently. “Muriel, I was hoping to run into you.”

He righted himself and took a step away to turn towards her properly, leaning the sack against his legs so it won’t topple over.  
“I wanted to thank you for your help.” 

She hadn’t changed yet, so her shift didn’t seem to be over yet. 

“You’re welcome, of course”, she smiled warmly at him and folded her hands behind her back. “I see your chat with the madame was successful?”  
“Oh, yeah.” Vernon returned her smile sheepishly. “I work at the inn and the tavern now. In return, I can stay here.” 

“That’s…”, Muriel seemed to have trouble deciding how to finish the sentence. He noticed her smile wavering as she eyed him with concern. Vernon wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but eventually she settled on a sad smile and continued. “I’m glad you have a place to stay, that’s wonderful. But please try not to overwork yourself.”  
Vernon didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. It was an odd request, and he was touched she seemed concerned for him, but something was bothering her about this. “Do you not think I can handle this?”  
“No, of course not. It’s simply – sad, I suppose. Your mother worked really hard, so you could attend school, learn a trade. And not destroy your backs carrying vegetables.”

Her words were a stab to the heart, in a way. He didn’t blame her, but they hurt because he knew she was right. He simply tried not to think these kinds of thoughts because he knew they would hurt.  
It seemed to show on his face, because Muriel took half a step forward and placed a hand of comfort on his shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry.” She tried to smile at him again. “I didn’t mean to bring it up, just forget it.”  
Vernon shook his head. “No, it’s fine. So, you are glad I found something, but sad that I had to?”  
“I guess that’s how you could put it, yes. I’m just very sorry it had to be like that.”

So was he. He supposed he could see where she was coming from.  
“I assume you two were close, then? You and my mother?” His question caught her off guard, and she looked at him with a mild expression of surprise.  
There was curiosity as well, though. “How did you come to that conclusion?”  
“Well, you recognized me immediately. And you said you had seen me before, when I was younger?”  
Vernon knew that his mother had always tried to keep him separated from her work. Obviously, she couldn’t have taken her child to a brothel, just as she couldn’t talk about her customers with him, but she was secretive in more ways than that. She has never talked about any coworkers or friends from work, and as far as Vernon knew, the few true friends she had had all been coworkers.  
He didn’t remember ever meeting anyone, including Muriel, or being told that she had met him. Admittedly, he had never even heard of her before, so it was a surprise to him when she recognized him.  
“If she introduced you to me, you must’ve been close, right?”

“That is right, but you wouldn’t remember. It was more than eight years ago.” She drew her hand back, and her smile softened again. It looked like she was recalling fond memories, but it was gone after just a split second. Too fast for Vernon’s taste, he would like to get an idea of what she used to mean to her. “And yes, we were very close. Janine meant a lot to me, I can tell you all about it sometime. What your mother was like back then”, she offered, a sparkle of enthusiasm and something else in her eyes that was hard to say no to, not that he would have. He didn’t need to hesitate to answer.  
“That would be nice.”

“Great.” She grinned at him. “I have to get back to work now, though. See around, kid.”  
She walked past him, and up the stairs behind him to the upper floors. 

With little other choice, he resumed to drag the potatoes to the kitchen. He still had a lot of errands to run, but at least the tavern hasn’t opened yet, so there were no customers to get on his nerves.  
Reinald would prove capable of that all on his own during the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am sorry, i know it took me forever to upload this :c  
> life is getting in the way atm, so unfortunately i had neither the time nor the energy or motivation to actually write, but (if anyone is even still reading this) i want you guys to know that this story is not abandoned and i don't intend to abandon it either  
> that being said, i can't promise that future chapters won't take me forever as well, at least for the time being
> 
> all this stuff aside, i do hope you enjoyed the new chapter, and a big thank you to everyone who is still around! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Vernon drew the wooden spoon in his hand through the bowl of pottage in front of him, watching as the thick liquid parted behind its handle and endured its own weight for a moment, before giving in, and running back together again. 

The lumpy, yellowish-green substance looked objectively disgusting, like something that might come out of the fisstech addicts down the street filled into a bowl, heated up and served while steaming – but to him it looked more divine than the light of the next world itself, and it smelled even better. Latter being the reason his stomach had protested the previous evening, after Reinald had actually started to cook and the smells of the kitchen had made it growl painfully.  
After the kitchen had closed down for the night, Vernon had assisted him while he threw something together out of the left-overs, to be put away and re-heated the next day, as the girls took their afternoon break, and Vernon had gone to bed hungry another time.  
But today being his first official day on the job, Madame Chastity had kept true to her word, and he got his own share. Granted, she had told him he could have a meal with the others, but Vernon hadn’t dared believe his luck until he sat here, in the once again closed tavern, waiting until the rest of the girls joined the table (for he was informed they always started eating together, and he wouldn’t want to disrespect their wishes on the very first day.)  
Waiting didn’t come easy, however, given that this was his first warm meal in _months_ , and it was food he didn’t have to steal either. He was incredibly grateful, but it didn’t mean eagerness to finally sate his hunger didn’t take over in the end, and he impatiently started playing with his spoon, to waste as little time as possible once the meal has been opened. 

“You shouldn’t play with your food”, Camille gently chastised him, a few seats away at the opposite side of the table. He couldn’t tell how much she actually meant it; the words didn’t carry any real conviction. Perhaps it stemmed from a sense of obligation instead. 

“I’m not”, he protested obstinately, raising his gaze to meet hers. He let the spoon go regardless, leaning back in his chair instead as it sank further into the bowl. “It just helps it cool down quicker.”  
The answer gained him a rather unimpressed hum. 

Someone else placed her bowl next to his, then, and slipped into the seat. “Oh, cut him slack. He must’ve been starving these past few weeks.” It was Muriel’s voice, cheerful as always. “Can’t fault him that he can’t wait to start, no?”  
She gave him a big smile as he turned his head towards her, before he looked past her to watch how the tables filled. 

“How many of you work here?”, he asked curiously. There seemed to be more women than yesterday.  
He also didn’t miss how the rest of the staff seemed to stick to their own tables, save for him. He couldn’t rightfully tell why, though, for there seemed to be no bad blood between any of them. At least not as far as Vernon had observed. 

“In total? About thirty, if I had to guess.”  
“And you change shifts during the break?”

She hummed her confirmation. “And the ones finishing their shift share a meal with the ones whose shift is about to start”, she supplied helpfully, seemingly understanding what he was angling for and hoping to connect the dots. “We all work different days, obviously, but sometimes more of us come in on days that tend to be busy, or if some happen to have pre-set appointments.”

“Why are there no men working as whores here?”, he asked and returned his attention to Muriel. It seemed the question was unexpected to her, if the odd look she gave him was anything to go by. And the same look was mirrored in some of other women surrounding them as well, as a quick glance around confirmed.  
Why, he couldn’t tell. Was it a weird thing to ask? It didn’t feel that way to him. 

“What makes you ask this?”, Muriel gently inquired, and he shrugged. “The Passiflora has them, I figured you might too.”  
“And how do you know about the Passifloras personnel?” This time, it was Camille who asked, and Vernon turned to find her following their conversation as well.  
Again, he just shrugged. “People talk a lot. I listen.” It wasn’t really much of an answer; it explained everything yet nothing really at the same time, but they would have to settle for it. Instead, he asked “Is it a strange question?”

“It’s an unusual thought process, is all”, one of the others explained. Her name was Annabelle, if he recalled correctly. He hadn’t been introduced to any of them, and he doubted he would be, so he only knew some of the names he managed to catch at one point or another.  
“Most people wouldn’t think about a man when they consider our line of work.”  
“We’ve never had anyone search for a man either”, another one added. He didn’t know her name. “You’re the first person to even ask, as far as I remember.”

It made him frown to think about. Certainly, the demand had to be there, if other brothels could get away with it. “How come?”

“I mean, you could throw a stone and chances are, whatever man it hits would be more than willing. Men aren’t necessarily _hard_ to convince”, a different woman said now.  
“That, and perhaps women are simply more desirable”, another one suggested. “Who’d voluntarily sleep with a man, when you could also have a woman?” A laugh went through the row. The notion seemed to be met with teasing agreement.  
“Right, women are objectively more beautiful.”  
“And less selfish. Horny men only look after themselves, so why pay him if he would be the only one to get something out of it anyway?” 

It was obvious those statements were meant as light-hearted humor, yet they had a sting to them nonetheless. He heard the same narrative practically everywhere; how men were supposed to pursue women, and women wear meant to be pursued, for women are desirable, and men are not. It seemed wrong in many ways, but it was commonly pushed by society anyway. He heard it in casual conversations between men and women alike.  
Admittedly, the way women talked about it always seemed to be meant as praise for themselves, whereas men often phrased it in degrading way, but in the end, it boiled down to the same idea.

He felt guilty about it, since there were more pressing matters to be addressed than his feelings, but it always left him feeling bad regardless. All this talk about how he and everyone else were supposed to be interested in a woman’s soft skin and perfect form; all big, round eyes and sensual lips, unlike brutish and vile men –  
Intellectually, he could understand the appeal, but he could never bring himself to _relate_ to it, personally. Surely, he wouldn’t deny that they could be aesthetically beautiful, but so could men be in his opinion. But beyond the aesthetic, he had started to find himself emotionally drawn to his own gender, the same way the other boys in his class had felt drawn to the girls.  
On its own, this fact had never served to make him unsure, but the older he got, the more people seemed to expect him to start and also feel this desire for women everyone talked about. When they realized he didn’t, they teased that he would grow into it eventually.  
The older he got, the clearer it seemed to him that he never would, and because of it, the more he felt like something was _wrong_ with him every time he heard it. 

“I don’t know, I think I could more easily see myself preferring men... in future.”, he meekly tossed in, and gave a non-committal shrug to play it off as a casual statement. It was the first time he verbally admit it, and he wasn’t exactly sure how they might react, so he wanted to give himself room to take it back, should he have to. 

For a split-second, they fell silent and exchanged a few glances. For a split-second, he felt a pang of regret, mixed with what might have been fear. Perhaps shouldn’t have said that.  
“Well, that’s alright”, Muriel reacted first, and gave him another smile as he turned to look at her again. “We were just joking around. But perhaps –”, she cast a quick, unsure glance to the others, “well, you should be careful who you tell this to.”  
It was nothing more than a vague warning, but it felt like another stab to the heart. The words only felt like a confirmation of his worries. “Why? Is here something wrong with it?”  
Why else would he have to be careful?  
“No, of course not”, Camille answered calmingly, and Muriel continued “It’s just that some people tend to… react badly to certain groups of people they do not understand, or choose not to like, even if there is nothing wrong with the people themselves.”  
“Oh”, was all he responded to that. He has been aware of it, of course. That some people got treated worse than others over nothing else than what they were; he wasn’t stupid, so of course he saw it. But he had never heard of other boys or men like him, so it didn’t occur to him that it might fall into the same category. 

“So, to answer your previous question”, Camille continued carefully, “the people who seek out male courtesans tend to be of noble birth, so you usually only find them in more high-end establishments, such as the Passiflora. They are the ones who can afford to get away with it, regardless of their gender.”  
He contemplated her words for a moment, and decided they made some sense, he supposed. Even if the commoners disapproved of a noble man seeking out another man, who were they to do anything about it? He would remain untouchable to them.  
It didn’t seem fair. But none of their privileges did. 

“You have female customers, don’t you? Wouldn’t they react badly to two women as well?”  
“We do, but that is different. “  
“How so?”

“Well”, this time, Muriel started talking again. “A lot of men like the idea of two women together, so as long as they delude themselves to think it’s strictly for temporary pleasure, and they get to enjoy the idea, they condone it, and in turn so does our society.”  
“At least, most of the time. Sadly, there are exceptions, where they decided the idea isn’t enough anymore”, another one added, and she didn’t exactly need to elaborate for him to understand what she meant by that. Neither variant sounded appealing to him, and neither seemed just.  
“Though there are certain groups who get away with being in a serious involvement. Like sorcerers and sorceresses, it’s not like anyone could say anything against them.”

“Seeing that we are complete, I think it is time to start eating, lest the meal turns cold”, Camille cut into the topic now. They must’ve been complete for a while now, the conversation had simply distracted them.  
On her word, everyone wished a nice meal to each other, and began eating. He followed suit.  
It was _so good_ to finally have a proper meal again. He ate in silence for a while, savoring the taste and the warmth, while trying not to eat too hastily out of over-eagerness.

But he wasn’t ready to regard the conversation as finished just yet, so he turned the words that had been spoken over in his head, until his bowl had been emptied. The others weren’t quite finished yet, as they had engaged in some chatter on the side, unlike him. 

Vernon had set his spoon down again and leaned back until an opening in the conversation presented itself. For the first time in two months, he felt something close to full, and it was as satisfying as he would enjoy it while it lasts. 

“So”, he started, when an old topic had come to an end, and the attention turned to him. “If you are not truly interested in men, do you not despise the work that you do? Given that most of your customers are men?”  
Annabelle was the one to answer first. “I mean, some of us are interested in men, and some aren’t at all, but in the end our customers are just jobs. We don’t have to actually be interested in them.”  
“I actually love my job”, one of the other women chimed in. He believed her name was Renee, or something along the lines of. “It gave me the opportunity to do something I wanted to do, rather than marry some cattle herder or other, or rot in another line of work I do not enjoy.”  
Her statement sparked agreement in a lot of the others.  
“Right, and most of our customers are fairly decent people, especially the regulars”, Annabelle added again. “A lot of them are arseholes too, especially the guardsmen that come in, but only a minority of them are really bad.”

“Most of us are here because we chose to be”, Muriel informed him now. “And most of us stay here because we want to”, she finished with a smile. “I’m actually working towards opening my own brothel one day. Somewhere near Mahakam.”

“Right, and she will call it the _Velvet Lined Meat Grinder_ ”, Renee teased, and the others giggled. He didn’t miss the innuendo.  
“Say as you will, but I am convinced if anyone would appreciate the name, it would be dwarves”, Muriel shot back with a smirk. 

“I don’t get it”, Vernon interjected lamely, “wouldn’t that name be off-putting?”  
He wasn’t exactly sure why he had said something funny, but this had gained him a laugh.  
“Well, it’s a little niche, I admit. But you would be surprised how well niche can work”, Muriel grinned. “Granted, Heaven’s Court is a more conservative name, as far as brothel names can be called conservative. But not everyone has the same _conservative taste_ as Madame Chastity in names. Or as the customers here.” 

Something about the way she said it, Vernon felt like he was missing some crucial context to understand what she meant. It bugged him, but he was too proud to ask for clarification, so he decided to move on instead. “Why Mahakam?”

“Well, my betrothed is a dwarf, and she and I decided a more non-human friendly environment might be good for us.”

“Your betrothed?”, he repeated.  
“Yes, she is amazing.” Muriel beamed at him now. “Perhaps some day you could meet her!”  
“And she is a dwarf?”  
There were days when he asked intelligent questions, but he was aware today did not seem to be one of them. 

“Yes, she is a dwarf.” Surely, she noticed the odd look he gave her, yet she smirked at him regardless, and he hoped it was indication enough that she didn’t take his reaction personally. “Is there something wrong with that?”  
“Uh, no, of course not”, he almost stammered, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be… I have never seen a female dwarf before, I didn’t mean to be offensive.”  
“It’s okay, kid. I’m sure she will forgive you.”, she responded with a smile. “And I’m certain you have, and just didn’t realize it. Humans tend to miss dwarven women and mistake them for males, since they also grow beards. My beloved likes to braid flowers into hers.” He faintly wondered what that would look like and tried to imagine it. Do dwarven women have feminine faces, if they still get mistaken for men? Perhaps that was up to the individual, but maybe they still looked masculine for a humans standard?  
“I see…” It sounded hesitant, even to his own ears, and he frowned at that specific piece of information. It wasn’t exactly the type of answer he would have expected, even if he wasn't exactly sure what kind of answer he did expect. "That's nice. The flower thing, I mean."  
"She is really good at braids", Muriel informed him proudly.

“So, you prefer women?”  
He was grateful that she didn’t seem to mind his interrogation, and she humored him and hummed thoughtfully. “No, not really. I think I like men and women about equally.”  
Vernon took a moment to ponder over that. He supposed it made sense, that she wouldn’t exclusively like men. At least he had suspected it, and if he assumed correctly, it might explain something else he has been wondering.  
“And were you involved with me mother?”  
Muriel huffed. “There is no hiding anything from you, huh?”  
He simply shrugged. “I suppose it makes sense, so it would be the next logical conclusion, right?”  
“Well… yes, we were. It was a long time ago. We decided we work better as friends, but Janine has always been very dear to me”

He nodded slowly and looked the elf over contemplatively. She looked barely older than twenty, but her kind aged slower than human's, didn’t they? Or perhaps they stayed young longer, he wasn’t quite sure.  
“So how old are you?” 

“My, Vernon, it’s rude to ask a lady that.” 

“Good thing you are not a _lady_ , Muriel”, Annabelle teased as she heard that, and Muriel grinned at her. “Oi, watch it.” 

“I hate to interrupt your chitchat, but the break won’t last forever. We ought to get to the dressing room”, Camille cut in, and the first women got up and bring their tableware back into the kitchen immediately.  
It meant his work day started as well, now, and he ought to get to the kitchen and help cleaning. So, he got up and grabbed his empty bowl, but before making off, he turned to Muriel one last time. 

“Thank you for the conversation”, he simply said, and she smiled at him in return.  
“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. so i know, this is a little shorter than the last two, but i felt like adding the next scene after this one wouldn't be appropriate whoops, sorry about that  
> 2\. so uhhh..... i think i wanted to include it sooner but forgot to do so, but just in case its not clear enough: the brothel/inn/whatever they are currently at is called heaven's court and i wanted to make sure this is Known, so nobody gets confused what i'm talking about if the name ever falls again haha


End file.
